


Opening Blind Eyes

by Sapphic_Futurist



Series: Something More Than What They Are [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, But Maybe A Sweet Potato Now, Divorce, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Trust, M/M, Marriage breakdown, Partner Betrayal, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Divorce, Steve Rogers Has The Emotional Capacity of a Potato, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26158132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphic_Futurist/pseuds/Sapphic_Futurist
Summary: “Okay, Tony. I hear you.”Tony hesitates, it’s too good to be true. “Can… Will you do something for me?”“Anything.” And there’s no doubt in his mind that Steve means that. He’ll always mean it, even after everything.“Walk away. From this, I mean. Now. Please don’t make me be the one who walks away again."
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Something More Than What They Are [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1892860
Comments: 50
Kudos: 221





	Opening Blind Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> When we keep making the same mistakes over and over again. When maybe there's something different out there.
> 
> As always, a thank you to fundamentalblue and her beta of this story. I'm starting to wonder if thank-yous aren't nearly enough.

Tony needs to stop shouting.

“Just admit it.”

He’s halfway to jabbing his finger into Steve’s face just as Steve stops taking steps backward and Tony almost bowls into him, hand smacking off his chest and the crisp fabric of his suit. He snatches it back and holds it against his body as if touching Steve has burned him, and maybe in a way, it has.

It’s hard to say what’s burning when his entire body is heated to the point of boiling over and steam is pouring out of Tony’s ears at an alarming pace. 

“You fucked up. You fucked up again, Steve, and admitting it is the first step to fixing the problem. Just. Admit. It.”

Coming here was a terrible idea and it wouldn’t have taken a psychic to tell him that he and Steve would end up at each other’s throat again. He just didn’t anticipate it would be about _this_.

Barnes is staring at him, wide-eyed and horrified, the tie that was looped around his throat a few moments ago curled in his metal fist. He hasn’t made any efforts towards closing his gaping mouth and Tony could clobber them both. This isn’t even Tony’s fight, and Tony has no right to insert himself this way, but he can’t help it. Steve is so goddamn condescending and he’s repeating the same mistakes over and over again because he’s too stubborn to open his eyes. 

Would it be such a leap to think Tony’s only saving Steve from insanity? That’s what this is, isn’t it? Watching Steve do the same things over and over again, expecting different results, not even realizing how he’s pushing away the man that was worth ruining their _marriage_ over. 

It’s not a slight against him, but Tony feels the resentment twist sharp in his belly all the same. The bitter thing that lives inside of Tony thinks maybe Steve deserves to be alone. Alone with only himself and his pride.

“Tony, that’s enough.” Steve’s voice is a low rumble with a bite of warning as he steels himself to the spot and visibly unclenches the fists he’s curled at his sides. Big man, never found a fight he couldn’t finish with his fists.

“No, it’s not. He’s said he doesn’t want to go. He’s said he’s not ready, and you’re going to burn the Avengers to the ground if something happens out there, tonight. You didn’t even ask him, Steve! You didn’t ask any of them!” Tony throws his arm out in a wide arc, gesturing at the pristinely dressed Avengers behind him.

Scott, Sam, Peter and Rhodey, all dressed to the nines, wearing an eclectic mixture of expressions almost as diverse as the patterns of their perfectly knotted ties. 

Barnes stands apart from them all.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you. Buck’s fine. He’s ready. Right Bucky?” Steve glances past him to Barnes who stays silent, shaking his head with eyes the size of dinner plates.

“It has everything to do with me! This is _me_ telling _you_ that you’re being an asshole and you’re going to ruin everything. Stop telling everyone how to live their lives. Stop goddamn pushing. If Barnes doesn’t want to go, don’t make him go. If Barnes doesn’t want to be an Avengers, he doesn’t need to be a fucking Avenger. You may be the Captain but you’re not God, Steve!”

“Okay, I think we all need to just—”

“Fuck off, Wilson.” Tony gives him a cutting glare and Sam presses his lips together. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of therapist? What kind of friend are you, letting him get away with this bullshit?”

Sam opens his mouth to reply and it eases shut again when he comes up blank _. I’ve got him there_ , Tony thinks, feeling a sneer unfurl across his face. Sam, one of the few people capable of getting through to his darling ex-husband, and he doesn’t even try.

“You’re going to push everyone away, Steve. You’re going to push everyone away and there’s going to be nothing left. You’ll never learn. You’ll never fucking change—”

“You’re so goddamn dramatic all the time. What are you even—"

Tony stops listening.

Maybe it’s the sharp intake of breath behind him, hardly a whisper of a sniffle, or maybe it’s Steve Rogers calling him _dramatic_ , he couldn’t say. But from one heartbeat to the next he’s in the middle of the living room at his family’s country home, all of eight years old, watching a near-identical scene unfold before his eyes.

Howard is shouting, berating one of the staff, Jarvis maybe, Tony can’t see past his turned back, and Maria steps between them to tell Howard to stop.

_That’s enough Howard, you need to calm down._

Howard brushes her off with a sweep of his hand and she stumbles backward.

_Don’t be so dramatic, Maria._

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice is small and soft as he takes tentative steps forward and reaches out with one hand. Tony gazes down at his long, thin fingers feeling dazed and far away.

There’s an uncertainty on Peter’s face that shakes him to the core and leaves him feeling cold all over. They’re fighting in front of the kid. The only reason Tony’s here, the only person who matters in this whole goddamn circus; Peter’s the only one who isn’t a clown and Tony is supposed to be here supporting him, building him up, giving him a boost if he falters.

Tony’s doing a shit job, as per usual.

“Tony,” Steve starts again, hard and firm as if he’s prepared to say what he has to for this to end but Tony ignores him. Steve can make his own bed and lie in it. 

He talks over him, instead. “I’m fine, Pete. Everything’s fine.”

Peter looks like he’s about to sink into the floor, and there’s a green tinge to the near-translucent skin around his cheeks. He’s just a kid and they’re fighting in front of him, the same way that good old Howard and Maria did with him.

When did Tony grow up and become his parents? And if Steve and Tony are Howard and Maria, who does that make—

“Come on, Happy and Pepper are waiting downstairs. They’re going to want to see you in your suit.” Tony claps a hand down on his shoulder, steering him away from the rest of them, away from Steve. Away from all of the conflict and the fighting.

Tony has exposed Peter to so much fighting already.

“This isn’t finished, Tony,” Steve calls after him, of course he does, but Tony locks eyes with Barnes and ignores him. Barnes has regained some semblance of his composure, stroking his fingers with an eerie calm along the crumpled tie. There’s something unsettling about him, beyond the fact that the Soldier who lives inside him murdered Tony’s parents with his bare hands. Something in the way that Barnes looks at him and sees everything he needs to, and nothing more.

Tony pauses next to him, raises his eyebrows. “You get to make your own choices. Not him.”

Barnes blinks and says nothing, not that Tony is paying anymore attention. He’s digging his fingers into Peter’s shoulder, feeling that the kid is trembling, and steering him into the elevator.

“Man, that one was on you.” _Two minutes, too late_ , Tony thinks, as Sam’s voice chases them down the hallway. But what he would pay to see the look on Steve’s face when one of his own challenges him.

No one ever challenges Captain America.

Everything still manages to fall into place. They take two limousines and have to shake it up at the last minute, because Steve and Tony’s disagreement in the living room has left them broken off in groupings too similar to Germany. This can’t fall apart, not after all the hard work they’ve put in.

Tony shoves himself in between Clint and Scott, dragging Peter along with him which forces Steve and Sam into the other car. At least when they make their entrances, the tension won’t be glaringly obvious. Pepper is riding with them too and she settles her manicured fingers light on his forearm and squeezes every few minutes. Tony tries to count the beats between squeezes for any semblance of a pattern but finds none. He focuses on the lights on the ceiling and breathes

The benefit is the perfect place for the announcements, both the expansion of the Maria Stark Foundation relief efforts, and the presentation of the newly appointed Avengers. Or at least, that’s what Tony has been told by Ross, the puppet master himself. Last week, he’d been told everyone was in agreement.

So, when Tony had come striding into the Tower earlier today, exuding a confidence he didn’t feel only a month after he’d last been in New York, it had shocked him to find Steve and Barnes at odds. Barnes, in the middle of telling Steve to back off and that he hadn’t agreed to this, wasn’t _ready_ for tonight. Wasn’t well enough for tonight.

And Steve, telling Barnes he could do it. That this is what they’ve been working towards. That Steve will be right there to help him through it and didn’t he know that he could do anything he set his mind to with a little help from his good old pal.

Tony had seen red.

It doesn’t even have anything to do with Barnes, not really.

Tony’s furious because Steve hasn’t learned one measly thing and for a man who claims to be the hero of the ‘little guy’, Steve does a piss-poor job of showing it. The hypocrisy alone should be enough to bury Steve alive. 

Steve had walked away from their marriage and he was all but forcing Barnes out of his life, only months later.

Maybe Tony just wants to know that ending their marriage was worth something after all. That Steve had lied, had torn Tony into little pieces, because of something that mattered. Maybe that’s asking too much of the man who thinks he knows what’s best for everyone around him and has never made a wrong move in his entire life. 

“It’s almost time.” Pepper’s hand slides across his shoulder and he realizes he’s glaring holes into the back of Steve’s suit.

Across the room, Steve is standing with his back to Tony, talking in soft tones with Natasha. The stage is lit up and the rest of the Avengers are milling about with a nervous energy that sets Tony on edge. His speech tumbles around in his mind and for a second, he wishes that he’d never agreed to come.

Pepper could have, and would have, handled this on his behalf if he had asked. 

What kind of ludicrous game was Ross playing at, anyhow? Word of Tony’s marriage ending had been front-page news for weeks, and here they were, prepared to stand together before benefactors and diplomats claiming that the Avengers were united and Steve and Tony had reconciled enough to bring everything into place.

The lie is so gauzy thin that Tony wonders why anyone chooses to believe it. But then, people will believe a lot of things when they’re too scared to face reality.

“Let’s go.” Steve’s in his space, nodding towards the side of the stage and Tony gives him a cold look, falling into step beside him.

By the time his foot hits the first step, everything is media perfect. Steve and Tony work together, as well as they ever have despite the tension that crackles in the space between their bodies and the podium. The Avengers file out and shuffle into place around Scott, Sam and Peter as they add their names to the Accords. Rhodey is there for show; he signed months ago when the team had been abysmally shorthanded and needed the War Machine to show the world it was still safe, still protected.

The cameras are too bright and everything is too loud.

In the crowd, Tony sees a vision of Maria, dressed in emerald green with pearls around her neck. She gives him a sad smile, rife with pity and unspoken hopes and dreams but when he blinks and glances back, she’s gone and an old woman in a sea of grey fabric is sitting at one of the extravagant tables in her place. Something sad and hollow strokes a hand down his spine and Tony avoids looking at Steve when he drags his eyes away from the Avengers at the signing table and listens for the cue at the end of Steve’s speech.

Somehow, they manage to get through unscathed and then Pepper is there, setting her hand on his forearm and leading him off the stage. The frequency of her touches isn’t lost on him, and Tony knows exactly what she’s about. Pepper always knows what he needs, even before he realizes it himself.

“I want a drink,” Tony mutters under his breath, more to himself than Pepper. The convention hall is a blur of noise behind him, background to the static of white noise in his mind.

“You can go.” Pepper steers him over to one of the corners and Tony hates how fast he jumps at the idea of playing the coward, prepared to run and hide from the world. When had he become this man who loses ground in a handful of ill-spoken moments, and his temper even faster?

Over Pepper’s shoulder, Peter is shaking a dozen hands under Sam’s proud gaze without a shred of nervousness. He’s all eagerness and the humble ‘oh shucks’ of youth and Tony adores him for it.

“I can’t. He wins if I go.”

“It’s not about winning. It’s about maintaining appearances. You’ve done that. I can cover the rest. You’re retired now, Tony. Taking a break from these things is exactly what that means.”

“Drop it, Pep.” When it comes out a touch too harsh, he adds, “thank you. For everything.”

“Then at least stay with me. I’ll be your date, like old times.” Pepper sways into his space and lets her elbow knot between his ribs. He forces a smile. “He’ll leave you alone.”

If only it were that easy.

But Tony does stay dutifully at Pepper’s side for the next hour.

She floats gracefully throughout the room, making the rounds and answering question after question about the expansion of Stark Industries and the funding allotment for the Maria Stark Foundation. Tony smiles and charms, losing himself in the role that he’s been filling for years. As easy as riding a bike. Except his eyes keep twitching towards the bar, and if he starts drinking now it’ll be too easy to fall off and skin his knees.

When Pepper excuses herself to the bathroom, Steve approaches him.

It’s so predictable it’s almost disappointing, and if Steve can be predictable then maybe Tony can too. Before Steve opens his mouth, Tony leans forward and plucks a glass of champagne off a tray hoisted high by a passing waiter and gives him a thousand-watt smile.

He downs the glass in two mouthfuls.

“Seriously? After that rousing speech about not ruining tonight?”

“What do you want, Steve?” Even though they’re tucked into a corner, half obscured by the massive red drapery that adores the conference room walls, Steve should know better than this. There are always eyes on them these days, and the press would kill for a scene at an event like this. Another lover’s quarrel to tear the Avengers apart.

It’s a shame that word of Steve’s brutality never made the headlines.

“We’ve spent months preparing for this,” Steve’s tone is conversational, but his eyes are hard. “Months getting the team ready, while you’ve been off God knows where in ‘retirement’. Bucky’s worked hard. He’s doing so much better and he was ready for this. You didn’t have any right. This isn’t your team anymore.”

Tony nods slowly, eyes scanning the crowd. “Barnes was ready for this, or you were ready for this?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t force everyone to bend to your will, Steve.”

Steve pauses for a long moment, and Tony glances down to see the familiar tense and release of his fingers at his sides. He’s always been such an obvious man, with no poker face to speak of and a painful disregard for politics. Steve lacks the special brand of elite decorum Tony was raised on and it shows, in moments like these, and anytime that he needs to hold his cards close to his chest. They’re opposites in so many ways, and maybe that’s part of why Steve wants to be able to control this so badly.

To guide Tony in the right direction, his own personal moral compass, when Tony has only ever been the other side of the same coin.

“When did I become such a bad guy to you, huh? You talk to me like I’m some—I don’t know, Tony—some dictator or something. Just because you’re angry doesn’t give you any right to—”

Tony bites out a laugh. “You don’t know when you became a bad guy to me? Honestly?” Tony shakes his head and shoves his shaking left hand into his pocket, leaning back against a jut from the wall right at hip level. “I wish you could hear yourself. How ridiculous you sound. The arrogance is just overwhelming.”

“You really want to talk about arrogance—”

“Gentleman,” Pepper appears back at Tony’s side, eyes taking in the empty glass in his hand before they skate up to look at Steve. “Thank you for keeping Mr. Stark company, Captain, but I think I can handle it from here.”

Steve glowers at them both, but bites his tongue and disappears into the throng of people.

Tony feels his shoulders sag, defeated. “What a fucking mess.”

Pepper clocks the glass in his hand and for a second Tony wishes he had had the foresight to pluck a second flute from the tray; something to chase down Pepper’s disappointment with.

“Don’t drink. Not tonight. You’re upset. You’re going to do something you regret, again.” Tony’s head shoots up, startled and he meets Pepper’s even, telling gaze. “You really think I don’t know? Come on, Tony. It was obvious. I thought maybe you were just getting him out of your system at the Tower. One last hurrah. But it’s never going to end for you if the two of you keep doing this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Barnes can fight his own battles and you can’t make Steve be something he’s not. It’s horrible to watch, Tony. Like some kind of self-flagellation and you hardly deserve to be punished anymore.”

“Drop it, Pepper.”

“Don’t snap at me. You know I’m right.”

Tony gives her a withering look, then proceeds to feel like human garbage as he thrusts the champagne glass off to a passing waitress and stalks off towards the exit. Pepper is so good to him, so kind and giving, and contrary to popular belief, Tony does know when he’s being an asshole and she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this.

He’ll apologize tomorrow, send flowers and treat Pepper and Happy to a trip somewhere warm, just the two of them, then call her when it isn’t enough—because buying things for Pepper is never enough, she wants to hear him say the words.

Tony just wants to hear Steve say the words, damn it.

Shame and humiliation nip at his heels like terriers as he steps past a line of reporters and sees one of the cars they had arrived in already pulling up. The knowledge that Pepper’s known this whole time and not said anything, that she’s had a glimpse of his dirty little secret makes him want to sink into the floor.

He’s a weak man. For Steve, for the booze. For all of it. Tony just wants to feel good, that’s all he’s ever been after his entire unfortunate life and every twist and turn the world throws at him threatens to steal that away.

Just as he’s making eye contact with the driver, opening his mouth to give directions to the airport—because he’ll be damned if he spends one more minute in the same city as Steve—a shout from behind him cuts him short.

“Mr. Stark! Hey, wait up!” Peter is rushing down the steps behind him, a flush high on his cheeks as if he’s chased Tony down at top speed and his eyes are bright with concern. Tony doesn’t know if he has the energy or the emotional capacity to deal with the kid right now, to not say something he’ll regret, or to listen to him if he needs something.

Tony could kick his own ass. This is Peter. He’ll always make something work for Peter and not just because he owes him one—more than one.

“Hey kid, leaving your own party so soon?” Tony nods to the driver, who smiles at them with a tilt of his head and a brush of his fingers against the brim of his hat and steps back into the car. Tony props one arm against the door, holding it open at his back as Peter comes to a stop in front of him.

“You know I don’t like all that stuff, Mr. Stark.” Peter waves a hand behind him in a vague gesture and Tony understands. Peter never wanted all this, and if it weren’t for the Accords, Tony would have been happy to let him go on doing his thing and used everything in his power to keep Peter safe in his own neighborhood.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t been an option.

“Better get used to it, Pete. Believe it or not, it’s not the death-defying feats and saving the world that make it tough to be a superhero. And you can’t even enjoy the champagne yet.”

Peter cracks a smile but moves on. “Where are you going?”

Tony glances at the car, and back at Peter. “I’m going to the airport. Gotta head back to the Coast. Board meetings and papers to sign, you know how it is.” Does Peter know how it is? Does Peter know that Tony’s lying out of his ass and that when he gets home he’ll work until he drops or down a bottle of liquor to the same end?

Who is Tony kidding, he’s been a mess since he met Peter Parker, showing up at his apartment building when he had no right to do so, sporting a black eye and desperate for back up in the form of a sixteen-year-old kid with a penchant for danger?

“L–let’s go back to the Compound instead.” When Tony goes to protest, Peter straightens his shoulders with a false confidence Tony remembers from his own youth. “The rest of them will stay for a while. Let’s play video games or something. Order a pizza. You wanna see the new Death Star Ned and I finished putting together?”

“You don’t have to humour me, kid. I’m fine, really.” Tony offers Peter a smile but he’s already giving over, rolling his eyes and stepping into the car as Peter follows behind him and shuts the door a fraction too hard. So, he has a soft spot for the kid? Someone needs to look out for him.

“Then you can humour me.”

Peter has never grasped the art of subtlety and it shows as he tugs off his jacket and tie, tossing them haphazardly onto one of the chairs near the sofa and propping his socked feet up on the long living room table.

“Sorry, tonight was so difficult, Mr. Stark. You didn’t need to come just for me.”

“It was nothing, Pete.” Lie. “And I’m not here just for you.” Lie. “Seriously, everything’s fine.” Another lie. It almost makes it easy to see how the lies could have spilled out of Steve, one after another, until they littered the ground like thousands of grains of sand. “Did you still want that pizza?”

“Nah, not really hungry.”

They forgo any food and Peter chats idly with FRIDAY for a few minutes while Tony waffles in the Compound kitchen, the liquor bottles on the counter, and the beer chilling in the fridge a siren’s call. There’d been a time when the Compound had been almost dry, personal suites being one of the few exceptions, and Tony supposes that he can’t expect things to continue that way. Still, he wonders if Steve had even given a second thought to the bottles, knowing Tony would be coming this evening.

He decides to give him the benefit of the doubt, even if Steve doesn’t deserve it.

“Why don’t you throw on that super old movie, you know the one. A New Hope,” Tony teases from the kitchen island, sodas in hand as he tosses one towards the couch just to watch Peter’s reflexes as he shoves upward and off the sofa to pull the can out of the air.

Peter laughs and asks FRIDAY to cue it up. Before the movie starts playing, Peter hesitates. He glances at Tony, down into his lap, back up at Tony, to the can of soda on the table and back again.

Tony sighs. “What is it, kid?”

“I—I just wanted you to know that if you needed someone to talk to—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Yeah I hear that but, I mean, things haven’t been easy and I’m sure I’m the last person that you would want to talk to about this kind of thing anyway. But I wanted you to know that it’s okay. If you did want to talk, I mean. I’d listen. I can be… people.” Peter stumbles over the words but forces out every one, then steals another glance up to Tony’s face to gauge his reaction. Has Tony ever met another person in this world as pure and as giving as Peter Parker?

“You’re people, huh?” Tony rubs a hand across his jaw and gives the kid a smile that doesn’t feel as genuine as it could be. “Thanks. But you really don’t need to worry. I’m fine. Let’s watch the movie, that’s what you wanted, right?”

Peter pauses. “You’re not just doing it for me though, right?”

“No, not just for you.” That time it isn’t a lie.

The movie opens and Peter, with his bright, eager eyes, is sucked in immediately. Tony’s mind is lost somewhere in a galaxy far, far away and clear as day he can hear Howard’s voice in his head, barking orders, brushing aside his mother, berating them both.

Somehow, in all the years that Tony has focused on becoming the polar opposite of his father, he’s transformed into a spectre of his mother instead. Maria was a weak woman, a broken woman, and Tony had loved her anyway. There was something brittle about her, the way her thin arms would wrap around him and shield him from Howard’s wrath, that is, until he was old enough to take it head-on. Then it was Tony’s turn to shield her.

But she never left. Not after the first black eye and the second sprained write. Not when Tony left for MIT and, from his standpoint, there was nothing left to stay for—not that staying for Tony’s sake was ever enough justification in his books. Maria had circled around Howard like he was the sun and she was caught in the orbit of his brilliance. Now, Tony simply wonders if she didn’t have the strength to go on living on her own. Married too young, with no family to speak of and a son thousands of miles away, it’s not a far cry to imagine why she stayed.

And just like Maria, Tony had found his Howard and let that be his world for years. The thought is black and ugly, something heinous he shouldn’t be considering but the resemblance is startlingly familiar. The way that Steve never says he’s sorry, never apologies. The way that he thinks he’s better than Tony, than almost anyone, and one day everyone is going to wake up and realize he’s right, then thank him for it.

Tony had seen the signs from the beginning and ignored them.

_I didn’t stay_ , he tells himself with a fierce determination. _I’m not Maria, I didn’t stay._

He repeats the words over and over until at least a small portion of his mind believes it and he can relax by a hair’s margin. By then, the movie has ended, and Peter has thrown an awkward arm around him in a half-hug that’s over too soon before he trundles off to bed.

Tony flicks on the news and tries not to think about the bottles in the kitchen. He’ll go soon. He will. He can walk away from the bottles. All things considered, he has to, because the last thing he wants is for Steve to come striding in, tall and proud, when he’s lying under the table drowning in scotch.

Tony stays long enough that he lives to regret it. A part of him wonders if this was what he was waiting for after all. Tony is a weak man.

“Tony?”

He tips his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. He’s so damn tired.

Maybe they can finish this tomorrow, when Tony’s had enough rest to regain the fire he needs to battle it out with the world’s most headstrong soldier. Does Steve know that he didn’t actually punch Hitler over two hundred times?

How is Steve not exhausted too? Tony thinks he must be.

“What do you want?” Tony glances over the seatback to see Steve hovering in the doorway, tie loose and looped around his neck, jacket over one arm and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He looks so handsome Tony wants to cry, wrap his fingers around his forearms and hold him still so he can trace his thumbs across the strong, steady pulse in Steve’s wrists. 

“I want to talk to you,” Steve says plainly, stepping across the few feet that separate them until he’s dropping down into the armchair at the corner of the sofa and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t think you’d still be here. Didn’t think I’d get the chance.”

“I’m tired, Steve. There’s nothing new to be said. Let’s just call it a night and we’ll hope next time isn’t as monumental of a shitshow, hm?”

Steve presses his lips together and gives Tony a calculating look that makes him think he should have left New York hours ago when he’d had the chance. It wouldn’t take much to get up now and walk away from Steve, leave him sitting there with his overflowing barrel of self-pity and bitterness, but he doesn’t.

Maybe he’s a glutton for punishment after all, or Pepper is right and this is some form of self-flagellation because Tony’s forgotten how to feel anything unless Steve is there flaying him open. Maybe he just can’t bear to be the one who walks away, again.

Whatever the reason, he stays, eyes locked with Steve’s stormy blues that give him a window into the squalling emotions underneath.

“Sometimes I forget how similar you and Bucky are.” Steve picks at a loose thread on his pants, struggling to maintain eye contact. “You would have been friends, I think. If all of this stuff hadn’t happened.”

“Sure, I usually make a habit of befriending the people who murder my loved ones.” Tony winces, and swallows around the acidity in his voice. He doesn’t want to fight, or give Steve a reason to start up again. “Sorry, that was—I didn’t mean that.” The little voice in his head flares to life: _see, Steve, it isn’t so hard to just say you’re sorry_ at odds with the whisper of _you coward, have some self-respect._

“It’s fine. He thinks you should hate him. Hell, I still don’t know how you don’t.” Steve shakes his head slowly, as if any move could startle Tony away.

Tony shrugs, giving Steve a look of ‘what can you do’ because there’s no clear answer as to why he doesn’t. Tony just… doesn’t hate Barnes. He can separate who he was with who he is.

None of this has ever been about Barnes. Steve just chooses not to believe it. How can he? When abandoning that train of thought would force Steve to face the realities of his trespasses against him.

“Buck said something tonight, after it all,” Steve pushes on. “Asked me how I thought I could ‘save him’ when I couldn’t even save my own marriage. Guess he’s probably right, isn’t he?”

Tony sighs, running a hand through his hair. The way Steve brandishes the words in a low voice as if they’re acid on his tongue, letting them slide with distaste into the sliver of space between them, should spark anger. It just leaves Tony with a deep sense of pity.

Even now, Steve expects him to have the answers. 

Strange, what Barnes has come to understand in such a short time while Steve continues to lay his hands over his eyes and claim that he’s blind. And how ironic it would be, if that’s what it takes. Steve’s good old buddy from the past, the driving force of change when Tony has been there all along.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Steve.”

“I’m trying to figure out what I’m missing here. Everyone else seems to understand. So, there must be something more that I’m not getting. That I’m not… understanding.” Steve speaks slowly, clipped as if he’s handpicking every word with hesitant fingers waiting to have his knuckles rapped.

Tony considers this for a moment, then says, “I don’t want to see you lose any more than you have.”

The admission surprises them both, and whether he knows it or not, Steve gives his whole hand away. He shifts forward, so their knees are almost touching, and the grief comes rushing back up to the surface, darkening his beautiful features.

“I want to understand, I do, Tony.”

“You don’t listen. You’re so focused on what you think is right, you don’t care to hear what the rest of us have to say. Barnes doesn’t want to be an Avenger. I see it, the team sees it. But you seem to think it’s the right thing for him—”

“He’s not feeling himself. I know him, better than any of you, once he’s feeling better, he’s going to want to—”

“Stop.” Steve’s mouth snaps shut, the muscle in his jaw straining as he grinds his teeth together. It must be killing him, and Tony curses the hope that curls in his stomach and nudges at the mockery of a heart behind the reactor.

Tony keeps his hands carefully curled on his knees, angles them away when Steve’s shifting movements have a wisp of his pant leg brushing against Tony’s. The last time he’d been this close to Steve, Tony’d fallen back to square one, a broken heart and a stomach full of bitterness, blackened around the edges with sorrow and grief.

“You don’t know him better than he knows himself.”

“Tony—”

“Did you hear what I said, Steve? You don’t know Barnes better than he knows himself. Full stop.”

Steve takes a breath, glances up at the ceiling for a beat, and then looks Tony in the eye. “Okay.”

Tony’s never quite seen that look on Steve before. As if there’s gallon upon gallon of white-hot lava bubbling just below the surface and it’s taking everything in Steve to hold it back, keep it from spilling over and claiming all the ground between them. Every other time before, Tony’s been buried alive, crushed, and insignificant under the weight of Steve’s ever-present resolve.

Except this time, Steve doesn’t push on. He stops, waits, keeps his eyes trained on Tony’s with his lips pressed so hard together the blood bleeds away and leaves the crease of his mouth a dull pink.

“That’s it?” Tony eyes him with doubt.

“That’s what you said, right? To listen. Full stop.”

“I guess I just expected—”

“I’m listening, Tony. You’re saying that Bucky knows himself best, even though he hardly knows what day it is some days, and he still wakes up on rainy mornings thinking he still needs to take me out because I’m his target again. But I should trust what he says and if he doesn’t want to be an Avenger so that must be the right answer. I should take him at his word because it’s beyond the realm of possibility that maybe Bucky doesn’t know his own mind right now. Maybe he needs a little hand. Some support to head in the right direction.” As Steve speaks, his face grows darker and darker until he’s glowering, teeth sliding against each other in a harsh whine that makes Tony wince.

There it is. 

The barely restrained anger surfaces and starts to show its face—funny, and here Tony was thinking it was Bruce who was always angry—and Tony wonders whether or not it’s the sheer force of the super-soldier serum containing it.

“Wow.” Tony gives a slow shake of his head. “That’s… okay. You said you wanted to talk, let’s talk. I’m not going to fight with you tonight. I just won’t, okay? So you can cut it with the passive-aggressive waspy bullshit, Cap.”

“You think he won’t snap out of it all in a few months and think about all the time he’s wasted? All that he could have been doing if someone just… helped him along? Just gave him that push he needed to be okay again?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says honestly. “But I still think that it’s his decision to make. And if he wakes up in a few months and feels like he’s lost time or made a mistake, he’ll figure it out. He’s a big boy, isn’t he? That’s his mistake to make—if it’s even a mistake at all, taking a big leap there, don’t you think? It’s his life to live. Not yours, understand? Not yours.”

Steve blinks.

Something fits into place, a key turning in the lock of Steve’s mind and he gets up, paces across the floor, and stands next to the window with a hand in his hair and the other on his hip. Tony could laugh because Steve had the nerve to call him dramatic as he stands there, shoulders up around his ears, refusing to look at Tony when he hears something he doesn’t like.

Something dawns on Tony then. Maybe he’s holding the missing piece to the puzzle.

“You know,” Tony starts, voice low and non-threatening, his figurative hands held out in front of him laying his cards on the table. “Sometimes you do these things, little things, and it just hits me like a ton of bricks.” Steve glances over his shoulder, eyebrows lifting by a margin. Tony chuckles a humourless laugh. “You and Howard must have gotten along so well, back in the day.”

Steve frowns. “What are you saying?”

Tony shrugs, looking down at his hands and picking a bit of dirt out from underneath one of his nails. “Just something you said earlier. That I was _dramatic_ ,” the word tumbles to the floor in a puddle of disdain. “Howard used to say that to Mom, when she disagreed with him. When she was standing up for herself. When he didn’t like what she had to say.”

Right on cue, Steve’s eyes flicker with recognition and then flash sharp, a glint from the edge of a knife. Yeah, Tony still knows exactly how to get him going. There are too many conversations from the past, where Tony’s opened up the little box labeled _Howard_ to share some of the unsavoury pieces from his past.

Where he’s shown Steve the crisscross of white scars on his heart, Howard tearing him into little pieces, or worse, his mother. Beautiful and priceless, something Howard shattered onto the floor just to watch her break. Then had the gall to kick her for crying.

Steve hates the comparison; he doesn’t even bother hiding it. “Is that what this is about? You think we’re, what? Your parents?”

Tony spreads his hands in front of him, gives Steve an expectant look. “If the unchecked rage and emotional immaturity fits?”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to fight, Tony.”

“I don’t, but I do want you to start getting it. Are you getting it yet, Cap? I’m telling you that the way you’re acting—the way you were acting when I got here tonight—that’s all Howard. That really the kind of man you want to be?”

“Is that why you walked away?” Steve counters, and his lack of understanding, his complete disregard for anything Tony is saying or has said, continues to astound him. “Is it? Damn it, Tony. Are you saying you walked out on our marriage because you think I’m like your _father_?”

Tony leans back against the couch and runs a hand through his hair, ignoring the accusation and going in for the kill. “Prove me wrong. Sit down. Listen to me. I would love nothing more than for you to prove me wrong at least once. Or do you want to stand over there, glowering, ready to put your first through the wall or talk over me when you’re tired of listening to what I have to say? It’s not going to make a difference to me, Steve. Like you said. I already ‘walked away.’ There’s nothing stopping me from going right now.”

“Then why don’t you?” Steve snaps, jaw clacking like a rabid dog even as his entire body rejects what he's said, stepping between Tony and the doorway in an unconscious movement, maybe, blocking Tony’s exit even as he pushes him to go.

Steve is a walking contradiction and that’s when Tony sees it. The fear in Steve’s eyes. 

“Because, you arrogant, stubborn bastard, despite everything, I still want to have faith in you. I want to believe that ending our marriage meant something. I want to believe that you can be better than the man who lied to me, who stopped listening to me. Who tried to kill me, okay Steve? I want to believe there’s a better man in there.” He slaps his hands against his knees and gives the chair across from him a pointed look. “So, which man are you gonna be?”

There’s a moment of hesitation where Steve gives him a disbelieving look as if he can’t believe Tony is pushing him, or can’t believe that he’s still sitting there. Whatever it is, Steve takes a few jerky steps back over to the chair and sits down, stiff and bewildered as if Tony’s pulled the rug out from underneath his feet.

He doesn’t speak.

“What are you so afraid of, huh? That someone’s going to say something you disagree with? That you’re going to say or do the wrong thing? Look at me, I’m a walking tornado of mistakes and I’m still here. Nothing wrong with admitting you made a mistake and trying to do better next time.”

“Tony—”

“You never say you’re sorry, you know that? You have to know that by now. Not ever. I can count on one hand the times I’ve heard you apologize, and even then, nothing changes. You don’t do anything differently. It’s just empty words.” Tony’s lip curls back in distaste. “Empty words, empty promises.”

“It’s not,” Steve leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and bows his head. “It’s not. I am sorry. So fucking sorry. For everything.”

“So what are you going to do differently? Tell me, Steve. Look me in the eye and tell me how sorry you are for ruining our fucking marriage while you sit here and change absolutely nothing.” Tony huffs out a breath, incredulous even when he hasn’t paused long enough to give Steve a chance to respond. That’s half the point. “Ridiculous. This whole fucking thing. Because you’re not really sorry, are you? If you were sorry, things would be so different right now.” _If you were really sorry maybe we’d still be together_.

“Tony, I am sorry. I love you, and I know you know that.”

“Of course I know that!” Tony balls his hands into fists and feels cold sweat break out across the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter—”

“—It does matter—”

“—if nothing changes. You want to apologize for beating me half to death Steve? Start fucking listening. To anyone, I don’t care if you never listen to me again. Listen to someone. Do some self-reflection or whatever the quacks call it. I don’t know, Steve. Fucking grow.” Tony waves an ambivalent hand between them which is an instant mistake because they both clock the way his fingers are trembling, violent spasms running up and down the length of his arm. 

And Steve just… crumples.

He drops his head into his hands and takes a ragged breath through his fingers, shoulders quivering as if he’s about to burst into tears. Tony wants him to be able to take it, to listen, and to _feel_ the devastating push to be something better, something more. He hates himself for being so invested in Steve figuring this out.

It’s a ridiculous fantasy, something reserved for children—one he had, in a different form, when he was a child himself—but he holds tight hoping that one day Steve might prove him wrong.

One day Steve might be the better man Tony’s been waiting for since Siberia.

“I can’t do this,” Steve whispers into the quiet. Tony keeps a firm hold over his hands in his lap. He will not touch him. He absolutely will not reach out and comfort Steve this time.

“You can. I know you can. You’ve got people, Steve. Sam, Barnes. Just listen, okay? Listen.” Tony has to stop, because he’s already dangerously close to begging and who cares about politics and card games anymore.

He’s raw and open all over again, vulnerable in a way that he realizes he’s invested no matter what, and the answer is meaningless at this point because tonight he’ll go back to the Coast, and Steve will put one foot in front of another until he either pushes on or transforms into something else.

But Tony won’t be here to see it.

Tony will be long gone. Alone, hardly a drop of ink in the epic biography of Steven G. Rogers.

“Steve, please.”

Steve glances up, eyes fastening on to Tony’s mouth and a jolt of heat shocks his system, sending Tony halfway to hard, hot and aching in his pants, looking into Steve’s face and reading every thought in his head. He licks his lips and Steve’s eyes follow the movement, but Steve doesn’t move. He hardly breathes.

This isn’t what Tony wants. It’s a distraction. It’ll make everything pointless.

“Tony,” Steve brings a hand up slowly, giving Tony plenty of time to pull away before he settles it on the curve of Tony’s throat. A warm trail of heat surfaces and follows Steve’s thumb down to his collar bone where it rubs back and forth. 

How are they here again? How exactly has this happened? Tony’s all out of answers.

Steve’s going to kiss him and Tony thinks he might let him. Every inch of his body explodes with anticipation and maybe this time it won’t hurt so much, because he’s seen glimpses tonight, of the Steve he’s been waiting for. He’s under there, somewhere, and Tony wonders if maybe he could draw it out in other ways.

This could be something else entirely.

This is going to be the exact same trap Tony keeps falling into over and over again.

_We’re not going to be those people_.

Steve leans forward and Tony realizes they’re both holding the same breath.

“Don’t,” he says, before Steve’s mouth connects with his own. 

Steve pauses, searches his eyes for answers that he must find, because he leans back and takes his hand away, sadness dancing across his features. “I’m sorry.”

Tony clears his throat, a familiar prickle behind his eyes as he blinks and looks away. He’s not going to fucking cry again. He’s not.

“Thank you.”

“I’m trying, Tony. I am.”

“And I’m happy for you. Truly.” Tony considers taking Steve’s hand and thinks better of it, lacing his fingers together and letting them hang between the slight spread of his knees. He’s mirroring Steve’s posture, he realizes a second too late. Trying to convey a comfort and ease he doesn’t feel, even now.

“So maybe we could try—I don’t know, just, I want to be better. For you, Tony. Please give me another chance to get this right.”

Tony smiles, a broken thing. “You need to want to do this for you. And I can’t wait forever, Steve. You keep wanting me to fix this for you and God, you have no idea how much I wish I could. But I can’t. Stop asking me.” 

A battle rages between them, as Steve opens and shuts his mouth a few times, finds words and sets them aside. Tony braces himself for the push, the pleading or the cajoling, but it doesn’t come. Steve just looks deflated, a hot air balloon slowing tumbling down from the sky and finally coming to a rest.

“Okay, Tony. I hear you.”

Tony hesitates, it’s too good to be true. “Can… Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.” And there’s no doubt in his mind that Steve means that. He’ll always mean it, even after everything.

“Walk away. From this, I mean. Now. Please don’t make me be the one who walks away again. It’s killing me, Steve. You have to see that.”

Steve swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing thick in his throat, but he holds back the tears and lets his face go carefully blank. Maybe he has a better poker face than Tony has given him credit for.

“I can do that.” Steve falters for a breath as if he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. He doesn’t reach out to touch Tony, sliding to his feet and folding his jacket over his arm. He doesn’t linger, taking determined steps towards the door with his back to Tony, something Tony’s never been able to do.

But even Steve can’t resist a glance over his shoulder. He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looks down at Tony’s feet. “You’re not Maria, Tony. You never were.”

“Steve—”

“I don’t want to be like Howard. And if that’s who I am in your story now, that’s okay. I can figure out how to live with that. But you’re not Maria. If you were, we wouldn’t be here, would we?” A flicker of a smile crosses Steve’s face, half-hidden in the inconsistent light.

Tony feels hot and cold all over. “I—thank you.”

Steve nods before he disappears through the doorway and Tony drops his head into his hands. All he can feel, all he can think, is that Steve is finally figuring it out, and that is so profoundly unfair. There’s no relief, just an open wound ripped wide again. Tony is bleeding all over the floor.

Steve is two minutes, too late. As always.

For six months Tony doesn’t hear anything from Steve. He figures it out. Life slowly starts to get better, and in the two trips he’s made the Compound since the gala they’ve avoided each other entirely. It’s not ideal but Tony can make his peace with that because the dull ache and a few days of living life in monochrome is an infinite improvement over being ripped apart and having his heart stomped into the pavement.

Yes, things are better.

He’s pulling off his tie on a Thursday afternoon in the kitchen of the Malibu mansion, almost complete in its remodel, when FRIDAY interrupts the mental blueprints he’s drawing up for R&D.

“Mail came for you today, Boss.”

“Baby you know fan mail time is every other Sunday at four.” Tony smiles to himself, because even though she’s learning more and more every day, FRIDAY is no JARVIS. He misses JARVIS something fierce and it had hurt to leave him after Tony had rebuilt his coding from scratch. It wouldn’t take much to reinstate him in Malibu, but he has a soft spot for the infant AI now and he can’t wait to see how she grows. 

“It’s not fan mail. There’s no return address, but I’ve scanned the inside of the contents and though I’ve calculated a mild risk upon opening, I still think you’ll want to review the contents.”

_What in the world_?

“Do you need a software upgrade?” Tony asks absently, wandering over to the kitchen island where a lone letter sits aside from the rest. Mild risk upon opening?

Tony peels off the corner and a small sheet of paper, barely bigger than a scratchpad falls onto the counter. A print photograph—who prints photographs anymore?—is tucked inside and he ignores it, favouring the odd piece of mail.

_I know this could be the last thing you want to get, but I thought you should know. Whatever you said, thank you. Something’s different. He’s different. —J.B.B._

Tony slides the picture out of the envelope. It’s the new team, looking comfortable and relaxed out of their uniforms. The picture is broad and the photographer is standing far enough back to capture everyone. No one is looking at the camera but they’re all smiling, some standing, some kneeling down in the grass in the warm, bright sunshine.

It’s clear what the focus is though. Right in the middle of the photograph, sitting on his ass in a massive wooden pen with a broad, genuine grin on his face, is Steve. He has an armful of goats and one has the bottom of his shirt in his mouth, mid-chew, but he’s laughing all the same.

He looks happy.

Tony turns the letter over, thinking there must be more.

There’s no more writing, but Tony can see the impressions of older notes written on the back that suggests the pad this sheet has been ripped from has been written on a hundred times before. Maybe Barnes has written the same note more than once, even.

Tony glances back at the photograph and sighs. He wonders how much more there is to the story and lets himself imagine, only for a moment, what exactly this could mean. It’s probably for the best that he’ll never know. 

**Author's Note:**

> Stick with me. One more part to go and I promise we'll get there. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated, well-loved and feed the ansty author.


End file.
